Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you joking?  You’ve got to be joking!” Greg spluttered after Anthea spoke.

“I do not joke, Detective Inspector,” she said smoothly, taking a sip of her tea.  “It’s no secret that you have been, shall we say, ‘carrying a torch’ for my employer for some time.”

Greg’s cheeks reddened.  “Jesus.  Does everybody know?”

“I am aware.  Dr. Watson is aware.  Sherlock is aware but has chosen to ignore the evidence.  And, of course, Sgt. Donovan is aware.”

“Which is why she told me to come to this coffee shop today,” Greg all but slapped his own forehead with the realization.  Sally set me up! He mumbled to himself. 

“Mr. Holmes frequents this coffee shop every Sunday morning at 9am.  He routinely orders a cortado and a pastry and sits at the corner table, reading his paper.  He is here approximately an hour.”  She took another sip.  “What you choose to do with this information is entirely up to you.  I am certain Sally will have some suggestions.”

“Suggestions.  Right.  She’s going to bodily drag me over here, isn’t she?”

“Probably,” Anthea smiled sweetly.

Greg held his hands up in mock surrender.  “Ok, ok.  It’s a date, then.”

Anthea nodded.  "I would wish you luck, but you won't need it.  You see, he has been carrying a torch for you just as long."

Chapter Text

Since he’d told Anthea he would, Greg forced himself out of bed early on Sunday morning, giving himself plenty of time to shower, shave, and consider the insanity of what he was about to do.  With one last glance in the mirror, he sighed, grabbed his soft leather jacket, and headed out the door.

He stepped into the café at 9:10, ordering a cup of strong coffee. The table Anthea had pointed out was occupied by a group of giggling teenaged girls, fawning over a photograph of their favorite celebrity in some glossy magazine.  No Mycroft.

He was about to turn around and go home when he hesitated.  In the opposite corner of the café, he spotted the man, looking more casual than he had ever seen – had ever believed possible, really.

Mycroft Holmes was holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand as he read the Sunday Times, gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. But that wasn’t what caught Greg’s eye.

No three-piece bespoke suit – he was wearing faded jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, his pale arms gloriously bare.  A jacket was slung across the back of his chair.  The auburn in his hair shone through in the sunlight coming through the window, and Greg even spotted an errant curl by the man’s ear.

Greg was still taking in the view, digesting it, when Mycroft’s piercing gaze met his.  “Detective Inspector,” Mycroft began, hurriedly putting down the paper and obviously feeling self-conscious.

“I’m off-duty.  It’s just Greg,” Greg said, shrugging off his jacket.  “Mind if I join you?” He motioned at the second chair at the table.

“Please do,” Mycroft said.  Greg took the seat, setting his own cup down on the table. 

“I do apologize –” Mycroft began, before Greg waved off his protests. 

“A little bird told me you’d be here now, and that I should come talk to you.”

“A little bird by the name of Anthea?” A hint of a smile graced Mycroft’s lips.

Greg nodded with a chuckle, adding way too much sugar to his coffee.  “She threatened me with my sergeant, too.” 

"A formidable threat indeed," Mycroft chuckled.

Greg stirred the coffee, staring at it almost thoughtfully for a minute.  “So, listen… you and me…”

There was a look of surprise on Mycroft’s face.  “Is that even an option?”

“Anthea seems to think so.  And so do Sally, your brother, and John.  Lord knows who else…”

“But are you interested?”

“Yeah.  I think I am.”  Greg laid his hand, palm-up, on the table and looked at Mycroft.  “Are you?”

Mycroft put his hand onto Greg’s upturned one, grasping softly.  “Yes.”

Chapter Text

For the next two months, Greg and Mycroft met every Sunday morning at the coffee shop, sharing a pastry or two and talking about everything from Sherlock’s latest antics to the latest football game to tabloid gossip.  Until the day they did not.

At 2am Sunday, Greg’s phone rang.

“Lestrade,” he answered gruffly, his face still half-smashed into the cushions.  He’d fallen asleep on the sofa again, watching an old movie.  He could tell by the shooting pain in his neck that he was going to be sore for days.

“Hey, Boss.  Sorry to wake you, but you’re the on-call tonight, and we need -” Sally said in a hushed voice.  Her sentence was cut off by the sound of glass shattering.  The crash cleared the last of the sleep from Greg’s mind.  Sally barked angrily at someone in the background before continuing.  “Look, if you could come 'round to Bonnie’s in Carnaby right away, that’d be great.”

“Yeah, right,” he groaned as he got to his feet.  “I’ll be there in 20.  Keep your head down til I get there.”

--- --- --- ---

It took Greg, Sally, and the rest of the team nearly two hours to get the bar fight under control, and by the time Greg got everyone calmed down, the injured carted off in ambulances, suspects into police cars, witnesses organized, and himself back to his office, it was half one in the afternoon. 

He missed his coffee date with Mycroft.

--- --- --- ---

As it happened, Mycroft was not waiting for Greg at the coffee shop that morning. 

He and Anthea had spent the week in Istanbul, not returning to Heathrow until very late Saturday night.  Exhausted, they had both fallen asleep in the back of the car, only to be violently awakened by the screech of metal and the car swerving hard, careening up a curb, and coming to a sudden stop over an iron railing.

In the eerie quiet that followed, Mycroft took stock of the situation.  Everyone had been securely buckled into their seats, which almost certainly prevented more serious injuries. But there were injuries.

Louis was out of the car in a flash, wrenching Anthea’s door open and reaching in to extricate her from the vehicle.  Her normally cool expression was wracked with pain as Louis gently lifted her from the back of the car and they disappeared from Mycroft’s view.

Meanwhile, Mycroft tried to release his seat belt, only to be rewarded with a searing pain shooting down his left arm – he could hardly move his hand, let alone press the release.

His door opened and a young police officer appeared in his field of vision.  “Hold still, sir.  We’ll get you out of there.” 

In a matter of moments, paramedics were attending to him, cutting the seatbelt and helping him from the car straight onto a waiting gurney.  It was now that he noticed the blood on his jacket – his own.  And the sharp pain at his temple. 

“My head…” he mumbled as he let his eyes flutter closed.  He wasn’t as dizzy when he could not see.

--- --- --- ---

When Mycroft opened his eyes again, it was late morning.  Anthea was seated in a chair next to his hospital bed, her leg braced and wrapped, a pair of crutches leaning against the wall beside her. 

“I expect you will be discharged in a few hours, sir,” she said, her voice tired.  “We were lucky, I suppose, that we were asleep and belted in.  The doctor said this is most likely just a nasty sprain,” she waved at her wrapped ankle.  “But I’m to follow up in a few days, to be sure.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally.  His left wrist was tightly bound, and he could feel a bandage around his head.

“You have a broken wrist and a mild concussion, so you’ll be out of the office until mid-week, at least.  I’ve taken the liberty of rearranging your calendar accordingly.”

“And Louis?” 

“A few cuts from broken glass and burns from the airbag, but all-in-all, he’s fine,” she nodded, the flush of her cheeks saying more.  “He’s off taking care of some paperwork with the constabulary and will return with a car soon.” 

“I’m happy for you, Anthea,” Mycroft gave her a soft smile.  “He is a good man.”

“Thank you, sir,” she smiled back shyly.

It was that moment when Louis appeared in the doorway, two paper cups in his hands.  “I picked up a chai latte for you, Annie,” he said in a low voice, not realizing that Mycroft was awake. 

Mycroft suddenly gasped with the realization that he had missed his coffee date with Greg.

--- --- --- ---

After the hospital discharged Mycroft with strict instructions for rest and quiet, Anthea and Louis settled him at his office at the Diogenes – the quietest place in London, thus perfect for someone recovering from a concussion.  Absorbing the silence, he stretched out on the obscenely comfortable sofa to rest, dozing lightly. 

As the sun began to set, there was a light tapping at his door.  “Sir, may I bring you something to eat?” Anthea said quietly, to minimize the disturbance.

“I would rather you don’t…” he sighed, loath to open his eyes.  A warm hand brushed across his cheek, and he stirred. 

“Can I change your mind?” a decidedly masculine voice interjected.  Mycroft’s eyes flew open to see Greg sitting beside him.

“I felt bad about missing our date this morning,” Greg smiled down at him.  “Seems like I wasn’t the only one who missed it, though.  It’s a bit late for coffee, so… dinner?”

Mycroft smiled tiredly.  "Wonderful."